


well i used to know you so well

by outruntheavalanche



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Codependency, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gen, Jossed, Not Beta Read, Plot Twist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-01
Updated: 2009-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-27 02:16:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6265657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outruntheavalanche/pseuds/outruntheavalanche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>They’ve been on the road so long that Dean swears up, down and sideways that he can taste the dust in his mouth and grind the grit between his teeth.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	well i used to know you so well

**Author's Note:**

> This is very old and bad. I just discovered it in a private writing LJ and decided to unleash it on the world.
> 
> I originally wrote this in anticipation of Sam turning evil, when he was hulking out on Ruby's demon blood. That didn't really end up happening so I never ended up posting this. 
> 
> I'm sure this has been done a million times over, and far better. 
> 
> **Warning:** A telegraphed plot twist. 
> 
> Title from "Decode," by Paramore. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

They’ve been on the road so long that Dean swears up, down and sideways that he can taste the dust in his mouth and grind the grit between his teeth. Sam just laughs at him, “Oh, whatever, Dean. We haven’t been on the road _that_ long,” and Dean just grins over at him, hands tapping on the steering wheel to Zeppelin, grin so wide it hurts his face. 

“Just glad we’re goin’ home, Sammy. So fuckin’ glad it’s over, you wouldn’t even believe.” The song fades out into low hissing static and Dean stills his hands on the steering wheel. 

Sam says, “ ’Course I would, Dean, ’cause I am too,” his voice warm, full of home and warmth and _rest_. Just the sound of Sam’s voice is like fingers, smoothing and uncoiling the tension that’s been wound up in Dean’s muscles since they started for home. 

Dean glances back at the gray, indifferent stretch of road winding in front of them. “Are you gonna miss it? The huntin’? The—the life?” 

Sam is quiet for a bit, finally answers, “I’ll miss saving people, but I won’t miss the loss.”

 

They end up at a crappy motel a few miles outside of Lawrence, dilapidated, run-down old _Starlite Inn_. The receptionist looks at Dean all cock-eyed and funny when he requests two queens instead of a king, but hands over the keys anyway. 

“Very cute, kid,” Dean says, pocketing the keys, glancing over at Sam and winking. “For the millionth time. We’re _brothers_.” 

“Whatever, man,” the kid says, flicking his gaze at Dean, shaking his head at both of them. “Enjoy your stay.” 

 

Dean claims the bed by the window. It overlooks a grayish patch of water that Dean finds almost comforting. It’s still, calm. Dean drops his duffel at the foot of the bed and collapses next to it, bending to unlace his boots. 

Sam crawls into his own bed, weary from exhaustion. Dean can hear it in his voice when he says, “ ’m tired, see you in the morning?”

Dean kicks off his boots and then his socks, wiggles his toes. “ ’Course you will,” he says, looking over at Sam. Dean offers him a reassuring smile. “I’d never up and bail on ya. Don’t be dumb, Sam.” 

“I just—have a funny feeling is all,” Sam continues, “like when I wake up, you won’t be here.”

Dean pauses before getting up and padding over to the side of Sam’s bed. He looks down at him, smirking at finally being able to tower over Sam for once. “I’ll be here when you wake. I promise.” 

Dean can hear the smile on Sam’s voice, “Okay, Dean. I believe you,” as he settles in his own bed and shuts off the light between them. 

“Goodnight, Sammy.” 

There’s no response. Sam is already out. 

 

_Cool flash of steel. A burst of light. Blooming red rose amidst the dark._

_The petals curl in, wither, and die._

 

There isn’t a night that goes by without a dream—Dean is reluctant to call them nightmares, because they’re not _scary_ , really, just unsettling. He can’t even remember the last time he slept peacefully all the way through. 

This time, he wakes with sweat-soaked sheets wrapped around his legs, mummified from the thighs down. Dean kicks them away and snaps on the light. Sam is still sleeping, eyelids fluttering lightly, the corner of his cheek twitching. Dean hopes Sam is having a happy dream because God knows he deserves it. 

Dean wonders how Sam hasn’t gone crazy by now, seeing all that blood and pain, all that anguish. Sam doesn’t talk about the visions that much anymore but Dean knows he still has them. His eyes gloss over and he looks distant, lost to Dean in a world of—something, something Dean isn’t a part of. 

Dean settles back in bed and rests a hand over his chest. His heartbeat butterflies against his ribcage. 

“Sammy?” Dean whispers. 

Sam doesn’t answer. 

Dean closes his eyes and wills himself back to sleep. 

 

They set out for Lawrence early the next morning. Dean ignores the odd look the receptionist throws him when he pays up, wonders why people always look at him and Sam like that. Like they’re—hiding something. 

“Thanks, man,” Dean says. “Nice doin’ business with ya.” 

“Whatever, just—” The kid pauses, taking the money and separating the bills. “—take care of yourself, man.” 

Dean gives the kid a _look_ , quirking his eyebrows. “Okay, thanks for the advice.” He turns to Sam. “Ready to hit the road, Sammy?” 

Sam says, “I was born ready,” and gives the kid the tip of an imaginary cap. 

Dean digs out the keys and runs his palm over the Impala’s hood. He can see his reflection, tired eyes, disheveled hair, sleep creases lining the corners of his mouth. 

“I can drive,” Sam offers, “you kinda look like shit.” 

“Nah,” Dean says, head snapping up. “I’ll be fine.” 

“I just don’t want to get killed because you fell asleep at the wheel,” Sam says, opening the passenger’s side door. 

“I said, I’ll be fine,” Dean snaps, immediately regretting it. “Sorry. Didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.” 

Sam shrugs, just gets in and closes the door with a whisper. 

 

The old house looks just like they left it all those years ago, except that there are no gleaming red firetrucks, no licks of flame, no death or pain or _loss_. Only new beginnings. 

A **FOR SALE** sign, water-warped from rainstorms and yellowed from the glare of the sun, is stuck in the soft, rotten ground, overrun by weeds and wild grass. 

The front porch sags with gravity and age, and Dean grabs Sam’s hand in his, pulling him up the rutted stone walkway. 

“Don’t step on the cracks, Sammy,” Dean warns, as they reach the front door. “You’ll break your mother’s back.” 

“I won’t,” Sam promises. 

Dean reaches for the tarnished brass doorknob and the door opens on a gust of cool air. Dean tugs Sam inside with him and shuts the door behind them. 

 

Bobby noses the truck alongside the curb and kills the engine. Dusk pulls its shroud over the sky. He looks over at Ellen in the passenger’s seat. “Rock salt?” 

Ellen reaches into her jacket and produces a sack of rock salt. “Yeah. Got it.” 

Bobby leans over Ellen and opens the glove box, roots through crinkled envelopes until he comes up with a chipped turtle-shell lighter. “Okay. And I got the gasoline in back.” He looks at Ellen again. “Are you sure you wanna—” 

“Yes, I’m sure,” Ellen insists, flicking a gaze on Bobby that’s as hard as her voice. “We both know he would’ve wanted this.” 

The two of them climb out of the truck and start for the front yard, choked with overgrown weeds. Ellen catches her heel on a sprinkler head and lands on her hands and knees with a hard thump. 

Bobby stoops to help her up, presses a hand to the small of her back. “You all right there?” he asks. 

“Yeah, just—sorry. Wasn’t paying attention to where I was going,” she says, holding lightly onto Bobby’s elbow. She glances up at the looming house, the blood-red door. “I’m ready.” 

 

Dean picks a carton of Chinese out of the bag of take-out and opens it, peers in and makes a disgusted face. “I’m not eating this crap. Looks like—frickin’ _worms_. ’s gross.” 

Sam laughs, says, “Don’t be ridiculous, Dean. If you don’t want it I’ll take it.” Dean willingly hands it over and Sam’s laughter dances, vibrates in the air. “And,” Sam adds, “it isn’t worms. It’s _tiger lily_.” 

Dean rolls his eyes and grabs a carton of chicken that looks completely harmless and edible. “Worms.” Dean grins and digs into his chicken. 

“You’re such a five year old, you know that,” Sam says. 

The door opens and Dean tenses immediately, paralyzed with fear. He jumps up and grabs the gun from the padded lining of his leather jacket, thrown carelessly over the back of his chair. 

Dean cocks the gun, calls out, “Who is it?” 

He can hear the clicking of heels and the slow, steady drag of thick-soled boots. Dean lowers his hands and releases the catch, heartbeat fluttering wildly in his throat. 

Ellen steps into the kitchen, hands raised. “Dean, it’s just us,” she says. 

Bobby emerges behind her, face slack and expressionless, eyes distant and sad. “Dean.” 

“What are you guys doing here?” Dean drops his arms at his sides. “I told you we didn’t want you to follow us.” 

“Just hear us out first,” Ellen says. 

“Start talking.” Dean sets the gun on the table. 

“We want you to come back with us,” she says, glancing briefly at Bobby. Dean doesn’t miss the look, squares his shoulders to them. “We miss you.” 

“I told you, I was taking Sam and we were going home,” Dean says, voice low, soft, insistent. “And we’re home. We’re not going anywhere.” 

Ellen lowers her head. “Dean, please.” 

Bobby slips a hand to her back. “Ellen,” he says, gruff and yet soft at the same time, “he doesn’t know.” 

“But he was—” Bobby cuts Ellen short. 

“He doesn’t know.” Bobby looks back at Dean. 

“Doesn’t know what?” Dean asks, hands on his hips. “Someone’s gonna tell me what’s going on.” 

Ellen raises her head and her eyes are wet. Her cheeks are defiantly dry and her mouth is set in a tight line. “It’s about Sam.” 

Dean looks from Ellen to Bobby. “What’s she talkin’ about, Bobby? What about Sammy?” 

“You really forgot,” Bobby says, more a statement of fact than a question. 

“Forgot _what_?” Dean asks, voice splintering as it hits the air, really hearing the strain for the first time. 

“Forgot what you did to Sam,” Ellen finishes. 

 

 _”You promised me.” Sam wiped his hands on his chest, a smear of somebody else’s blood across the front of his shirt. “I_ asked _you, Dean, and you fucking_ promised _.”_

_Dean held the gun in wavering hands, trying to blink the tears out of his eyes. “I—I can’t, Sammy.” He choked on a sob. “I’m not strong enough.”_

_“Yes you are. Just pull the trigger,” Sam begged._

_“No—I’m not!” Dean started to lower the gun. “I can’t do this on my own.”_

_“Dammit, Dean!” Sam’s voice was diamond-hard. “You promised!”_

_Dean let his arms flop weakly to his sides. “If I put a bullet in you, you damn well know the next one’s going in me.”_

 

“Dean, you need to let him go,” Ellen says, holding out a hand to him. “Sam is gone.” 

“No,” Dean rasps, all sharp jagged edges. “He’s here! Can’t you see him?” He turns to Sam but his chair is empty. Dean blinks and drops his hand. “He was right _here_.” 

Ellen bites hard on her bottom lip. “Dean—” 

“ _No_!” Dean lashes out and grabs the gun, cocking it. “I swear to God, if you don’t leave—” 

“You’ll, what, Dean, shoot us?” Ellen asks. 

“ _Leave_.” Dean’s voice is rubber-band thin, stretched as far as it’ll go and about ready to snap. 

Bobby steps forward, palms up. “Please, don’t make this any harder than it has to be,” Bobby says. 

“He won’t believe us unless we show him,” Ellen murmurs. 

“Show me what?” When he doesn’t get an answer, Dean raises the gun and aims it at Ellen. “ _What_?” 

Bobby glances at Dean and motions for him to follow. “Just come with us.” 

 

Ellen and Bobby pause before Dean’s old childhood bedroom, the one he shared with Sam until he got self-conscious of him and demanded a room of his own. Ellen opens the door and flips on a lightswitch. Dim haloed light barely reaches Dean’s eyes. 

Dean waits in the doorway with them, eyes adjusting. “Why did you bring me up here?” 

Ellen only points. 

Dean follows her gaze to the gutted old mattress, stuffing and springs splitting the sides. His heart seizes up in his chest and he grabs onto the doorframe, fingernails digging into the wood. 

“No.” 

“Dean—” 

“ _No_ ,” Dean hisses, pressing his forehead against the doorframe. 

“You wouldn’t believe us otherwise. You had to see for yourself,” Ellen says. “It’s real, Dean. We’re not making this up.” 

Dean raises his head. He and Sam lie side-by-side on the old mattress, fingers laced together. Dean’s other arm is bent at the elbow, gun clutched loosely in his fingers. Even in the dim light, he can see dried blood spatter on the mattress and the pillows, the once-white walls. He can even see specks of blood on the ceiling. Sam’s head is resting on Dean’s shoulder and Dean can see a small hole with burnt edges at his temple. 

“This can’t be—it’s impossible,” Dean whispers. 

“We’ve been followin’ you for a while now,” Bobby rasps. “Truckstops, motels, cafés, diners . . . You’ve been hauntin’ your way across the forty-eight contiguous United States.” 

Dean closes his eyes, knees buckling, still clutching to the doorframe. “That boy, at the motel—he saw me. I rented a room for the night, he looked at me like I was crazy. He _saw_ me.” 

“The Starlite Inn?” Ellen flutters a hand near Dean’s shoulder, but pulls back. “Dean, you’ve been haunting that inn for the last five years.” 

Everything that’s been swirling around Dean suddenly snaps into sharp, clear focus. He stares at Ellen, swallows audibly. “Five—five years?” 

“Sam couldn’t fight it any longer, and he—he snapped,” Ellen explains softly, “killed the motel owner’s son. You shot Sam at that motel, Dean. You brought him back here. And then you killed yourself.” 

“Why—why isn’t Sam here then? Why’d he just leave me behind? Doesn’t he know I need him?” 

Bobby raises his voice. “He let go a long time ago, Dean.” He has a red gasoline can and a lighter in one hand and a sack of salt in the other. “Make this easy for all of us and just let go.”

Dean draws in a long, ragged breath.

“You need to rest,” Ellen insists.

Dean looks back at himself and Sam, at their entwined fingers and suddenly he feels so damned _tired_. Rest sounds like a great idea.

“Okay,” he says on the exhale. 

 

_Dean cradled Sam against his chest and rocked him, arms locked around his brother like he would never let go. “You didn’t give me a choice,” he said, hurricane-calm. “Why didn’t you give me a choice?”_

_Dean gently lowered Sam’s body onto the mattress and folded his hands over his chest, where his heart should be. He ran a thumb over Sam’s waxy, cool cheek and shook his head. Offered Sam a broken smile._

_Dean reached into the lining of his jacket and pulled out the gun, checked the barrel. One bullet left. He settled next to his brother on the bed and cupped Sam’s head against his chest. Dean cocked the gun._

_He smiled down on Sam as the bullet clicked into place._


End file.
